


Suptober Day 11: Rock & Roll

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chuck is an asshole, Dean Winchester Loves Music, Dean Winchester Teaches Castiel to be Human, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26960782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “You’d do that,” Chuck says, his tone flat. “You’ll lose the stars, Castiel. Your brothers and sisters. The universe won’t sing to you anymore. Nothing will have rhythm. Nothing will make sense. You’ll lose the music of the spheres.” His lip curls up, under his beard, and then settles back down. “You only thought you were human before. Being a graceless angel isn’t the same thing as being human.”Okay, that’s really fucking ominous.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 29
Kudos: 221





	Suptober Day 11: Rock & Roll

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually seen any of S15, so... just bear with me here! Pretend I know nothing about it. (Because I don't.)
> 
> Unbetaed, and mostly notebook writing, so sometimes those come out kind of a different style for me!

When the world tries to end this time, it ends on a stalemate.

‘Cause they’re the Winchesters, and this is their fucking lives.

That’s the thing, right? God is Chuck, and Jack is Jack, and a grand total of _no-one_ —especially the mudmonkeys that they are—wants to find out who’s gonna win on the big macho showdown. And maybe a small part of Dean thinks Chuck’s kind of sad about how it all turned out, and that’s why he’s backing down from a kid who technically isn’t old enough to have his voice crack—or maybe it’s ‘cause technically Jack’s the only grandkid he’ll ever have.

But really, Dean’s pretty sure it’s because Chuck’s a coward and a sneak.

“But the angels are mine. So, come on, Castiel. Let’s go,” Chuck says, smiling that know-it-all smile, and Dean thinks all the blood leaves his brain. He doesn’t even realize he’s clutching his angel blade—he didn’t even realize he _pulled_ it—until Cas touches his elbow, gently.

“No,” Cas says—all trench coat and certainty. He looks tall in a way that Dean’s never seen before. “And if it is my grace that you require—then take it. But I know what it is to be a father, now, and you have never been my father.”

A couple of years ago, Dean knows he wouldn’t have understood that. But now—with Jack, he does. He also gets why Chuck looks like Cas punched him in the throat when he continues, shoulders going back, his eyes blazing with a fierceness that’s brighter even than his grace, “I would rather live by their side, with my family, for a handful of years as a human—I would rather age and die in that eyeblink—then ever call myself one of _your_ angels again. So if you’d rather kill me than let me do that—then do it now.”

Castiel doesn’t say it with any particular anger. But he says it the way he says his truths. Chuck’s face twists, so damned petty—and Dean’s standing between them, completely pointless angel blade up and raised, before he even figures out that he’s going to move.

The moment he realizes he has, Dean squeezes his eyes shut, ‘cause what the fuck, this is how he dies. He’s about to get whammied into oblivion by God—but if it gives Cas just one more second, just _one_ more second—

Dean cracks his eyes open when he doesn’t turn into smithereens.

Chuck’s just looking at Dean, and the smirk he was wearing earlier is gone, now. “Oh,” he says, looking at Dean like he’s never seen him before. Then he snorts. “Huh. Guess they had to be right about something.” His nasally voice is very different now.

Dean doesn’t have to look behind himself to know that Cas has his head tilted.

Chuck only glances at Dean once more before turning to Cas like Dean isn’t standing between them. “You’d do that,” he says, his tone flat. “You’ll lose the stars, Castiel. Your brothers and sisters. The universe won’t sing to you anymore. Nothing will have rhythm. Nothing will make sense. You’ll lose the music of the spheres.” His lip curls up, under his beard, and then settles back down. “You only _thought_ you were human before. Being a graceless angel isn’t the same thing as being human.”

Okay, that’s really fucking ominous.

But Cas comes to stand at Dean’s shoulder, and puts a hand, gently, just over the rise of Dean’s shoulder blade. On his other side, Dean doesn’t have to look to know who’s walking up to stand in a line with them: holding it, because all of them are fucking idiots who don’t know when to quit. None of them know how to break away. Sam’s hand comes to rest on Cas’s shoulder. Next to him, Jack looks really small. But he’s holding Sam’s hand like he’s really a kid, and not a deathless tower of power that’s scared God into a stalemate.

“I would give up everything, for them,” Cas says.

“He would,” Jack agrees, and he sounds sad.

When Chuck reaches out to touch Cas’s forehead and his whole being blazes up in a white, cold light, Dean doesn’t look away, even if there’s the risk that it’s gonna destroy his eyes.

None of them do.

Chuck’s right, it turns out. Of course he fucking is. Always with the last word.

Human Cas _isn’t_ the same as he was, as a graceless angel.

Cas gets colds—in the first few months, it seems like he never _stops_ getting one, since his immune system probably hasn’t had to work in fifteen years. They go get him a couple of blood tests about the time Sammy realizes that, oh, fuck, _measles_ and _polio_ and shit. It looks like Jimmy had all his shots, though, and he still has most of his immunity. But he’s due for a tetanus update (aren’t they all) and Cas doesn’t have any chickenpox antibodies.

The hurt look that Cas gives the nurse at the Kansas City free clinic who has to give him his first set of shots is fucking _heartbreaking_.

“You been stealing puppy eyes from Sammy?” Dean asks, wryly, as they climb back into Baby. What’s next, the contagion of the bitchface?

“What a macabre thing to say, Dean,” Cas tells him, poking at the bandaid on his arm with a grimace. “I’m quite sure there are no puppy eyes in the bunker.”

When Dean rolls his eyes, he thinks he catches a quick flash of Cas smiling to himself. But when he actually looks, Cas’s expression is solemn as anything, and those blue eyes are wide and innocent.

 _Too_ wide and innocent.

Even as Dean watches, Cas’s eyelashes flutter. They _flutter_.

Dean splutters, once, and then he leans back in Baby’s bench seat and snorts. “Humanity didn’t make you less of an asshole,” he observes, grinning.

“Since mine is now apparently functional, I should think not,” Cas tells him, completely fucking straight-faced.

Sonofabitch! “O _kay_! Okay, we’re… okay,” and there’s nothing that Dean can possibly say to _that_.

But yeah, it’s a relearning process, all over again. Cas gets stomachaches when he eats too much. Since he hasn’t figured out how not to stuff his face when he’s hungry, that happens a _lot_.

“I didn’t do that, did I? When I didn’t have my grace?” Jack asks, worriedly, patting his hands over his former-angel dad. Cas groans, but he tries to smile up at Jack, even curled on his side on the sofa as he is. It’s kind of pitiful.

“Don’t be smug, kid, you’re not too big or powerful to put in time-out,” Dean says, absently, and goes to make Cas a cup of the ginger tea stuff Sam stocks over the coffee pot.

(Sam swears by the shit. It even tastes okay. What? Dean’s drunk it when the hangovers are really bad. It’s not like it’s weirdly soothing or anything.)

It’s just… normal, it’s learning how to be human, it’s being careful not to slip in the shower—all three of them came running at that—and paper cuts on ancient books. It’s realizing that Cas still has his reflexes, but he can’t throw a knife worth _shit_ anymore because he has no idea what his upper body strength is or isn’t.

But it ain’t _bad_.

Then Dean finds him in the Deancave. He’s got his legs curled under him in the recliner, ‘cause that’s just how Cas likes to sit, and his back straight. He has Dean’s big over-ear headphones on, and he’s frowning. Looney Tunes—Cas still loves cartoons, and he and Jack have a regular Saturday morning date to watch them together—is playing in the background, with the sound muted.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, gently. With Cas that look could mean anything from “I need to fart and don’t know how” (Dean left _that_ conversation to Sam; he already had to explain to Jack that when someone has ‘blue balls’ it’s just an expression) or “I just remembered I can’t understand ancient Egyptian anymore.”

Cas carefully clicks off Sam’s MP3 player; Dean didn’t see it clipped very properly to the front of his flannel. (Aw, Cas; he doesn’t know why that’s weirdly cute.) He gently pulls the headphones off and studies them.

Then Cas says “I don’t think I like music anymore,” thoughtfully, and a little sadly. He lowers the headphones to his lap and stares down at them, the earpieces cupped in his hands like he thinks he’s betrayed them. “It’s… it doesn’t sound the same to me. Not like it used to.”

Dean thinks his heart breaks.

 _You’ll lose the music of the spheres,_ Chuck said. _Nothing will have rhythm_.

This is it, then. His mouth tastes sour and gritty, like ashes. The unfairness of it makes Dean want to punch something. Yeah, on the scale of things, it’s small. It’s practically _petty._ But on the scale of things that are _good_ , that are _pleasurable_ , that make being human worthwhile?

Dean refuses to believe that this wasn’t intentional. But he can’t shoot God—or, well, he can’t shoot him _again_ ; it was pretty satisfying the first time, even if it didn’t actually do anything.

“No.” Dean won’t accept this bullshit. He will _not_.

Cas doesn’t like music? No way.

“Dean, you can’t force it,” Sam says, gently. “It’s… okay, you know. It’s really okay. He can find pleasure in other things.”

Except it’s not fucking okay. And that? That gives Dean an idea. Sam looks at him warily when Dean’s smile grows, and he knows it might be a little insane. Or a lot insane. But what the hell, Sam’s right: Cas _can_ find pleasure in other things.

They play Zep as they drive, and he shows Cas how to drum the beats against the dashboard as they really open up down a straight lane, the windows down so the wind sweeps through Cas’s hair. Dean teaches Cas how to put together a V6 with the deep rhythmic bass intro of Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” going up and down in the background. They cook together, all four of them, with Bon Jovi telling them all about “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

“Oh. I think I understand this song a little better, now,” Castiel says, seriously. “I see. ‘Gotta hold on to what we got. Doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. We’ve got each other, and that’s a lot.’” He looks around at them. “It _is_ a lot. It’s everything.”

Sam says, “Yeah, Cas, exactly,” in a voice that’s too soft.

Jack hugs him—one of Jack’s big hugs, where he squishes his whole face into Cas’s chest. Dean sort of wishes he could hug him, too, but he’s got flour in his eye, or something.

Cas looks at Dean like he thinks Dean’s lost his fuckin’ mind when Dean sets up burgers and lemonade and a portable cassette player in a little picnic area in Indiana. As they eat, Dean sings along to the best of Air Supply—loudly, head thrown back, without a single damned bit of shame. ‘Cause what the hell, there’s no-one to hear him but a couple of sparrows jonesing for bits of hamburger bread. If Cas is gonna learn to love music, he’s gonna learn to _love_ it, and there’s no shame involved in that.

Cas laughs and laughs and laughs, his mouth full, a french fry dangling between his fingers, and Dean thinks that this might be better than the music.

Driving back from a vampire nest, Cas practically vibrates with excitement about how well he did, three vampires all on his own while Dean got out the poor bastards they were planning to do for snacks. On the cassette player, Lynyrd Skynrd croons, “Lord, I’m comin’ home to you.” Dean reaches over to squeeze his leg, not taking his eyes off the road, and grins. “Nice work, buddy,” he says. Cas’s thigh is firm and muscled under his hand.

Dean almost vaults a table in his hurry to change the station when “Hotel California” comes on. Cas gives him a curious look, over the pants he’s hemming on the little treadle sewing machine he found in one of the Bunker’s storage rooms. (He really has the weirdest skill set.)

Jack complains, “Hey, I like that song!” and looks hurt and confused. “The guitars are so cool.”

“ _No_ ,” both Dean and Sam say, in unison.

Dean meets Cas’s eyes over the sparring mat as Heart yowls “How will I get you alone?” and he knows exactly why he’s panting and running hot. Cas’s shirt is stuck to his shoulders, patches of it going translucent—he’s gotten _really_ good. He’s a fucking sneaky fighter. Dean _doesn’t_ have an explanation for why his _hands_ are sweaty, though, when Cas pins him for the first time—straddling his hips, one hand on Dean’s throat and the other holding an angel blade in a firm, certain grip.

(Human Cas? Left-handed. Huh.)

When he tries to go get Cas to pick someone up, Dean puts “You Shook Me All Night Long” loud and proud on the jukebox—because when it’s on in the bunker, Cas always gets this strut to his step at ‘knockin’ me out with those American thighs’ like he’s ready to do some shakin’ of his own. Dean’s even got a girl all picked out for him—a little coppery-blond with glasses and a sharp smile that’s been licking her lips over Cas since the two of them walked in.

Cas just smiles and shakes his head. “Play another song,” he says, instead. His lower is soft and full and wet, nudging the neck of the beer bottle like he’s kissing it before he drinks. “Something new.”

The first time Dean kisses Cas, REO Speedwagon purrs, “When I said that I love you, I meant that I love you forever,” and Cas mouths the lyrics against Dean’s lips, his mouth pressing and moving softly.

(Cas has still got a weirdly good memory for lyrics. It’s bizarre. Kind of cute. Also hilarious how he just, like, _talks_ them. He never sings them. It’s like watching a Spoken Word performance.)

But “I like this song,” he says, shyly, for the first time. He doesn’t move back. Dean can taste the Chinese food that they had for lunch on his breath.

“Good,” Dean says. “Me, too,” and he draws him gently back in by the back of his neck.

It goes easier, after that.

The first time Cas slides into the shotgun seat and asks, shyly, “Can… can I choose the music?” Dean almost fucking _weeps_ .

“Only if you don’t tell Sammy,” he warns, once he’s not so choked up. “Or Jack.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Cas promises, and scoots in to sit close enough for his head to rest on Dean’s shoulder. He smells like peppermint shampoo.

Cas puts on The Bruce, bobbing his chin to “Born to Run” with his knee bopping gently to the beats. Dean puts an arm around him and pulls him closer. Hell, what else are bench seats for?

The first time Cas cries out on top of him, sobbing and shaking, Dean’s hand around both of their cocks in Baby’s back seat, Dean realizes that playing Def Leppard in the background was a bad idea. ‘Cause now he’s _never_ gonna be able to listen to that album without getting a boner.

A week or so after that, it happens: it’s when Cas actually starts _singing_ to himself that Dean knows he’s won.

And fuck, isn’t that a pretty sight—Dean’s ex-angel standing in front of the sink, washing dishes as he sways from side to side and croons to himself. Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now” would’ve sounded really weird anyway in Cas’s deep voice—they’re all pretty sure he has no idea how to do a falsetto—but as Dean stands and listens, smiling so widely his cheeks hurt, that’s when he realizes. That’s when it hits him.

Yeah, he’s in love with Cas.

But, shockingly, _that_ isn’t the realization that has Dean leaning against the doorframe with a hand pressed over his face, shaking with laughter that’s just a little bit hysterical.

It’s not that Cas doesn’t like music. That was never it at all.

Cas is fucking _tone deaf_.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Why, yes, this is yet another of my stories that involves a ridiculous amount of buildup for _one punch line_. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Artists and songs mentioned:  
> Led Zeppelin (of course)  
> Aerosmith, "Sweet Emotion"  
> Bon Jovi, "Livin' On A Prayer"  
> Air Supply  
> Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Sweet Home Alabama"  
> Eagles, "Hotel California"  
> Heart, "Alone"  
> AC/DC, "You Shook me All Night Long"  
> REO Speedwagon, "Keep On Lovin' You"  
> Bruce Springsteen, "Born To Run"  
> Def Leppard  
> Chicago, "If You Leave Me Now"


End file.
